


A Day in Paradise

by mokuyoubi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Happy Family, Mother-Son Relationship, a day in the life, references to past abuse, references to sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 21:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5681035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set shortly before the beginning of the Red Dragon arc, a day in the life of the Verger-Bloom family, for the Hannigram Holiday Exchange</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in Paradise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daffenger](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=daffenger).



It doesn’t matter what time they put him to bed at night, early or late, Morgan always rises at the crack of dawn. This morning it’s just past six when Margot is woken by the distant sound of his bedroom door closing and the patter of small feet down the hall. She has just enough time to prepare herself by pulling the covers up over her head before he flings open their door. At this ungodly hour, heedless of their daily remonstrations, he flips on the light, and climbs onto the bed, launching himself into narrow empty space between Margot’s body and Alana’s.

Having not grown up with Mason Verger as a brother, Alana is a heavier sleeper, forever caught off-guard by their son’s morning time assault. She groans, but is cheerful as ever, playing peek-a-boo with the sheets, to Morgan’s squealing delight. Margot thinks about that time she suggested trying for baby number two and they decided to put it on hold and sends out a silent prayer of thanks to whoever.

Alana rises slowly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Mornings are the most difficult for her, muscles and joints stiff from sleep. Morgan follows her into the bathroom, playing with the shower door while Alana brushes her teeth, a sharp metallic _click click_ over his chattering. 

“--and then the drum rolled off the steps and crushed the T-rex, and the Care Bear got away!” Alana makes vague humming noises of surprise and wonder around her mouthful of toothpaste foam.

Even if Margot could get back to sleep, there’s no point--Alana’s alarm would have gone off in another twenty minutes anyway. She drags herself from the warmth and comfort of their sheets, snags her dressing gown from its hook on the back of the closet door, and pokes her head in the bathroom.

“Hey, who wants to help me get breakfast started?” 

Morgan slams the shower door closed and jumps up and down. “I do! Can we have those rainbow cheerios again, Mommy?”

Alana gives Margot a questioning look, brow quirked, and Margot shoots back with her most innocent _I have no idea what this child is talking about_ expression, before kneeling in front of Morgan. She tugs him close by the front of his sleep shirt--pink and blue penguins ice skating--and says out of the corner of her mouth, “Meet me in the kitchen once Mama gets in the shower, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Rainbow cheerios?” Alana asks, after she’s spit neatly in the sin and rinsed her mouth.

Margot shrugs blithely on her way out the door. “I don’t think there is any such thing,” she says, with a flip of her hand. “Who knows where he gets these ideas?” Alana rolls her eyes at Margot affectionately, but doesn’t comment any further.  
There are a total of three kitchens in the main house, but with their family of three, two of them remain dormant. Except for the occasional dinner party, they use the small kitchen at the back of the house, meant for the staff. Margot manages the staff and keeps it at a minimum. 

Two maids, the butler, and cook, each with their own cottages on the property. The groundskeeper, gardener, and stable hands have always lived outside the house. Private security are the only others who live in the house, and they use the same kitchen--Margot likes to encourage a friendly, if professional, relationship between them and her family.

No endless parade of governesses, nannies, and tutors complacent in her brother’s sins. Margot is perfectly capable of entertaining her son and seeing to his educational needs at such a young age. No chauffeur carting him around to playgroups, practices, and games. Either one of his mothers or both are always present for such events. No nosy, interfering estate managers or PAs. Alana and Margot have done their best to simplify their lives so they don’t need that level of assistance.

Margot gets down a cereal bowl, takes the Fruit Loops from the hiding place in the bottom of the pantry, and pours a cup of milk. Morgan likes to pour it on the cereal himself. Just turned three and already thinks he can do every damn thing in the world for himself. Generally speaking, whether it’s true or not, Margot doesn’t discourage him.

Morgan comes into the kitchen trailing his ever present stuffed lamb Abby behind him. He climbs up into his chair and with a look of great concentration, pours a small amount of milk over the cereal.

“Remember,” Margot tells him, sitting down in the chair next to him. She puts a finger to her lips. “If your mama asks, they just came out of the cheerio box this way.”

Morgan mimics her, single finger to his own wide grin. Margot smiles back and digs her fingers into his stomach, tickling briefly before rising again. While Morgan starts shovelling spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth, Margot starts on breakfast for Alana and herself. Cook usually only makes dinner, and Margot prefers it that way.

By the time Alana comes down, showered, dressed, makeup impeccably applied and hair artfully styled, Morgan has finished his cereal and moved on to his fruit and yoghurt. Alana pauses to give Margot a bright red kiss on her way to the table, where she eyes the muddied purple milk left in his bowl.

“It just _came that way_ , Mama,” Morgan says, all wide eyed earnestness.

“Mmhmm,” Alana mutters.

They sit down together with their omelets, discussing their upcoming plans. It’s Thursday and the weather has been dismal. Alana’s injuries always act up in the cold, wet weather. They’ll take the jet to the house in Georgia tomorrow for a long weekend. After, Alana leaves for the long drive to Baltimore and Margot and Morgan are left in the giant, cavernous halls of the manor alone.

Morgan draws on the walls of the shower with his special crayons while Margot takes a bath. He likes to ‘help’ with her makeup after, which basically means trying on all the colours himself first, before allowing her to apply it. Once they’re both dressed and bundled up against the weather, they go down to the stables to visit the horses. It’s too bitterly cold to ride, but Morgan likes to see them every day, petting their coats reverently.

When they get back to the house, Margot reads the damn _Curious George…_ books roughly a hundred times each and curses Alana’s brother viciously in her head for buying the damn treasury in the first place. 

They make a five course play doh meal, pizza topped with spaghetti, salad, alphabet soup, and cupcakes, rainbow swirled ice cream. It’s a good thing Alana isn’t around, unable to bear watching as he mixes together all the colours into an eventual shit brown. By the time he’s ten, Margot’s sure half his fortune will have been spent on new play doh.

At least an hour is whiled away chasing one another from room to room, playing hide and seek. Morgan still doesn’t understand the finer points of hiding, under the misconception that as long as he can’t see Margot, she can’t see him, which leads to all sorts of hilarious “hiding” spots. Margot doubles over and stifles her laughter behind her hand while Morgan crouches in the tub in plain sight, a tea towel over his head.

Morgan still goes down for a nap after lunch time. Other mothers in his play group, magazines, and doctors have all told Margot he doesn’t need to nap any longer, but she’d invite any one of them to come deal with the monster he becomes when his nap is skipped.

Margot rocks him after they’ve turned off the lights and turned on his Ninja Turtle nightlight. He and Abby the Lamb cuddle up on her lap and she sings to him, trying to remember what it was like when his whole body was shorter than the length of her torso and he’d sleep on her chest for hours on end. Now he wiggles to be let down after only a couple of songs and climbs into his big kid bed.

After a lifetime of relative freedom to do whatever she pleased, within her brother’s malevolent shadow, it is strange to have her time so occupied by the needs of another. Now, while Morgan naps, Margot is occupied with the family business. She has delegated most of the day to day operations, but insists on overseeing any major decisions. 

Until Morgan is old enough to take his position and dismantle the whole empire once and for all, Margot will do her best to undo all the sick and twisted policies her brother put into place. She’s instituted more human practices, donated the charities working on eradicating animal cruelty, has lobbyists in Washington working to push through the very legislation Mason worked so hard to block. 

Working from her home office, making calls, signing and faxing papers, pouring over company documents. Today, as she reads through the pertinent news articles to keep herself appraised on current business happenings, she can’t help but notice all the sidebars, plastered with articles about this Tooth Fairy killer. 

Margot studiously avoids any crime stories, but even the headlines regarding this guy are enough to send cold shivers up her spine. She’s no Will or Alana, but she’s looked long and hard into the face of evil her entire life, and knows enough to see the difference between your everyday killer with their cruel, mundane motivations, and the ones who may as well have risen straight from hell. Mason. Hannibal.

Margot is cold and frightened when Morgan wakes up and comes downstairs, his fine hair mussed from sleep. His eyes glassy and his smile easy and full of love. He lets her pull him in and hug him for endless minutes.

“Did you have a nice nap, honey?” she asks, hand only shaking a little as she pets back his hair.

“Uh huh,” Morgan says. He’s tucked in the crook of her neck, gangly arms around her shoulders, legs splayed over her lap, and she wants him to stay small like this forever, where she can keep him safe. “I was looking for you in my dreams, Mommy.”

Margot huffs a laugh and presses a kiss to the crown of his head, then lays her cheek there. “Did you find me?”

“You always find me,” Morgan says. He pulls back to look her in the eye, all earnest, unquestioning love. “Do you always have me, Mommy?”

“I _always_ have you, baby,” Margot tells him fiercely, wrapping him up in her hug once again. She thinks of Alana, of the thin glass wall separating her from Hannibal Lecter, and all the lines she’s crossed and rules she’s broken to bring Morgan into this world and to protect him now that he’s here. “Mama and I will always keep you safe.”

Morgan touches his tiny, warm hand to her cheek and says, “I know you will Mommy. You’re my best Mommy in the whole world.”

Thursdays are play cafe and craft day. If it had been left entirely up to Margot, she’d never have joined up in the first place. As soon as the issue of inheritance was settled, Margot began readying the home for their son, and besides the nursery and the outdoors playfort, she’d turned Mason’s old bedroom into a playroom, decorated like a forest wonderland, with swings and slides, tumbling mats and climbing wall, and a treehouse. 

She and Mason had a rather insular childhood; aside from the children of her parents’ friends, she hadn’t really had a playmate, aside from her brother. It was all she’d ever known. As Alana pointed out, there were many good reasons for exposing Morgan to a more diverse peer set. 

Margot is remarkably out of place among the other mothers. Never mind her tailored clothing and designer shoes to their department store apparel. Or how she remains all too aware of the men with guns sitting outside the café, on her payroll, alert and ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble. How there’s no way the other parents could ever really grasp what it is Margot deals with on a daily basis--the level of paranoia and at times nearly paralysing fear.

No, those are not the things that set them apart so entirely. These women sit together and discuss their pregnancies. They complain about the force of the kicks, or being unable to see their feet, and how long it takes to lose all the weight. They complain about how long they had to wait for an epidural, or discuss the tricks they used for bringing on labour, or how they scheduled a cesarean because it was just more convenient. They stroke fondly the hair of their second or third or fourth, or the growing expanse of their stomachs. 

They tell Margot how lucky she is her wife did all the heavy lifting for her, and Margot’s jaw feels like it will shatter from the force with which she grinds her teeth. Her stomach roils in bitter anger and anguish and honest nausea, but she doesn’t stroke her stomach, that hollow left behind the constant ache of Mason’s scar, a reminder of what was carved from her. What these women have that she never will.

Most days she can, if not forget, at least push aside that pain of loss. She has Alana, with all her infinite understanding and patient wisdom. She has Morgan, who looks more like Alana than either Mason or Margot, and who, thankfully has more of her heart and soul in him. He is not the child she wished so desperately for, but once she held him in her arms, none of that mattered anymore.

They can have other children if they so desire. There are five more embryos frozen and waiting, though quite a large part of Margot wants to destroy them. Let any future children be free of her brother’s genetic curse.

And yet, all the rationality, all the desperate, crazy love she has for Morgan doesn’t stop the cold punch in her gut when she hears these women speak. It can’t fight the helpless inadequacy she feels. Or the rage--at herself for thinking she could fool Mason; at Hannibal Lecter, betraying her out of spite and jealousy; at the men and women who unquestioningly followed Mason’s orders.

All the same, she comes every Thursday, grin pasted into place, and watches her son run and laugh and shove and cry, fight and play. It’s so ordinary, the stories he makes up and the games they play. His little hurts and upsets. Easy to soothe and resolve, almost as if it’s a reward for her suffering. The universe saying _see, this one’s safe from Mason. This one’s going to be just fine._

“Mommy, catch me,” Morgan calls out, climbing out the window of the play structure. Margot removes her shoes and goes through the gate, catching him as he wriggles the rest of the way out. She spins him around and he squeals happily, “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” until she’s too dizzy to continue. When she puts him down, they both stumble and collapse to the ground in laughter. 

Morgan climbs on top of her, a heavy solid weight to the gut that knocks her breath out with a whoosh. Margot is aware of the other mothers watching, annoyed that she’s set a precedent, perhaps, and now their children will want them to come play, or jealous of her energy level, or judging her for how indulgent she is of Morgan, but she has no desire to engage in their petty politics.

They make snowflakes from popsicle sticks, using glitter and sequins to decorate them. One for home, and then a second one that Morgan insists upon, so Alana can have one in her office. He ends up with more glue and glitter on his face and clothes and, improbably, in his hair than on the snowflakes, but he’s so proud of himself that Margot can’t find it in her to care. Even when she thinks about the epic battle they’re going to have over washing his hair this evening.

It’s dark when the finally leave, half past six in the evening. Margot can’t help but get her hopes up that Alana will be waiting for them at home, but one can never anticipate how late she’ll end up staying at the hospital. Hannibal enjoys his playing his power games with her, and then there are the other _actual_ patients, making the job unpredictable at best.

In fact Alana’s car is already waiting to be put in the garage, parked by the back entrance. It’s difficult to say whether Margot or Morgan is more excited to see it. The home is warm and full of the cheery sound of Alana’s music playing from the den. Cook is producing delicious scents from the direction of the kitchen. It still gives her a moment’s pause, at times, to walk into her home and feel safe and secure rather than anxious and frightened.

As soon as Margot puts Morgan on his own feet, he’s racing down the hallway, leaving a trail of mittens, scarf, and hat behind him, jacket pooled in the entrance to the den. Margot follows behind, groaning as she bends to pick up each item, and looks fondly on the scene she finds. Alana in her chair by the fire, glass of red wine in hand, book fallen to the ground, Morgan squeezed between her thigh and the arm of the chair, snuggled close.

“And then I took the kid’s truck and he cried,” Morgan’s telling her, very earnestly. 

Alana hums, tucks her cheek against his hair. “I bet that was very upsetting for him,” she says softly. “How would you feel if he’d taken your toy?”

“That would have made me very angry,” Morgan says. Alana nods. “Mommy made me give it back and say sorry.”

“Maybe next time you should ask instead of taking,” Alana says. “It’s very important that we always ask permission, Morgan, and respect the wishes of others.”

There are times, watching them and the easy way Alana has with Morgan, that Margot feels like an outsider. Then Alana looks up at her and gives her a private smile, and Margot shoves it all aside and goes to join them. She leans over the back of the chair to give Alana a slow kiss. She tastes of fruit and velvety tannins, and when Margot lays her hands on Alana’s shoulders, she can feel the tension slowly easing.

“Long day?” Margot asks.

Alana shakes her head minutely. “I’ll tell you about it later.” There are lines at the corner of her mouth and between her brows that weren’t there when they first met. Sour, heavy guilt settles at the base of Margot’s throat, an all too familiar sensation that she forces herself to swallow.

“Come on, dinner time,” Alana says, nudging at Morgan’s back. She can’t carry him anymore, not since he broke twenty pounds. Physical therapy could only go so far to restore her strength and mobility. Margot sees it tear at her; they both have their burdens to bear.

Cook has made them a hearty winter root stew--parsnips and carrots, squash and sweet potato, beets and tender chunks of beef, served in bowls of pretzel bread. He dines with them, along with the daytime security detail, Dorothy and Vic, brother and sister duo. They’re a good pair--they make Morgan laugh and are respectful of Margot and Alana, and most importantly they’re among the best at their job, not only looking out for the family, but for one another. 

It chips away at the lingering shadows cast over the home by Mason and their father, to have the house filled with laughter and easy conversation, dinner around the tiny kitchen table. Vic brought fudge, and Morgan barely eats, but Margot is a soft touch. Even over Alana’s tutting, she lets him have a piece. Or two. Or three. No one is sent to bed hungry for not eating their meal. No one punished for sneaking sweets.

They watch an episode of Care Bears after dinner, and then it’s bath time. Margot washes him tenderly but in a perfunctory manner, naming his body parts as she cleans. She is careful and precise, using the correct vocabulary. No one will ever take advantage of her son in the same manner Mason took advantage of so many children, herself included. No one will be able to exploit his ignorance to hurt him.

Alana sings her goofy, made up bath songs, much to Margot’s dismay: “Splash, just splash Mommy, a little water never hurt nobody!” Mostly because Morgan gleefully obeys, sending bubbles and bathwater all over the room and Margot, staining her silk shirt. She glares, and Alana gives her an innocent look that Margot suspects she’s stolen directly from her.

Morgan’s bedtime ritual has the effect of soothing not only him, but Margot as well. They use the dim lighting of his nightlight--a gently spinning lantern that project the stars and planets on the wall. By this lighting, Alana massages lavender lotion into his skin while Margot reads to him. Margot can tell there’s something weighing heavily on Alana’s mind, from the distance in her gaze, and the slow, almost absent motions she makes as she rubs the lotion in.

Diapered and dressed in his pirate pjs tonight, Alana leaves the two of them alone. Margot sings “the rainbow song,” as Morgan calls it, and rocks him. He likes the way she draws the shapes on his back, rainbows, stars, chimneys, and bluebirds. Margot does her best to commit all the details to memory, for when the day comes that he no longer needs or wants this attention at bedtime.

Alana is in the den when Margot has finished tucking him in. The television is on, the news playing, but the volume is down low and Alana is staring into the fireplace, beer in hand. Margot seats herself gingerly across Alana’s lap, and Alana shifts to make room for her, uncrossing her legs. “What’s up?” Margot asks, drawing a hand over her cheek.

Alana shakes her head again and lets out a sigh. “Jack wants to bring Will in on a case he’s working on. He called to ask my opinion.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with you anymore,” Margot protests.

“Maybe not,” Alana says. She shrugs and looks up to meet Margot’s eyes. “Or maybe Jack realises as soon as he drags Will back into this whole mess, Will’s going to want to drag Hannibal into it.”

Margot winds her arms around Alana’s shoulders and sinks against her chest, tucking her face into the sweet-scented curve of her neck. There’s nothing to say--she can’t deny it, because they both know it to be true, and acknowledging it will only make Alana feel worse.

In three years, Hannibal hasn’t said anything to incriminate them, and at this point Margot thinks that even if he were to thoroughly recant and place the blame for Mason’s death at their feet, no one would believe him. If they did, there’s no proof--nothing but his word against theirs. They could go far away from here and cut all ties. But no matter how often Margot points this out, they remain.

So instead, Margot rises and extends a hand. There are ways she has of getting Alana out of her own head. She can melt away those worries with the touch of her tongue. Alana allows herself to be tugged to her feet and led down the hall, up the stairs. 

Morgan’s gentle breathing can be heard when they pass his door, and Margot smiles. This is as close to content as she’s ever been, and probably ever will be. With all that’s been, and all that’s come to pass, it still feels a little bit like paradise.


End file.
